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6/13/2025, 6:50:02 PM
>>211693091
Hex sticks out her tongue, feeling ridiculous, electric, her skin prickling with the thrill and disgust of what she’s about to do. She draws the dog’s heavy muzzle toward her own, tongue just grazing the wet, panting heat of his. For a heartbeat, it’s just a gross, slippery collision—her lips to his, tongue to velvet canine tongue, spit and fur and an explosion of “oh god, what am I doing?”
The taste is sharp, acrid, impossibly foul—dog food, meat, something unnamable and ancient. The Dane licks back, oblivious, eager as any pet with his mistress. Hex breaks the kiss, coughing, cheeks burning, laughter bubbling up—half-mad, half-exhilarated. “Nasty,” she chokes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing spit and self-loathing. “So nasty—ugh. You’re lucky you’re cute, you absolute beast.”
She flops back onto the rug, breathless and shaking, shame and wild glee twined together like the storm and her loneliness. The Dane, utterly unfazed, lays his head in her lap and sighs.
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, Hex feels as if she’s been branded, deep inside, by the taste of taboo. The chill in her soul is gone—replaced by something raw, secret, and hot as breath.
She grins, eyes glittering with mischief and a private madness. “Don’t tell the Swedes,” she whispers, stroking the big dog’s ears. “They wouldn’t get it.”
Hex sticks out her tongue, feeling ridiculous, electric, her skin prickling with the thrill and disgust of what she’s about to do. She draws the dog’s heavy muzzle toward her own, tongue just grazing the wet, panting heat of his. For a heartbeat, it’s just a gross, slippery collision—her lips to his, tongue to velvet canine tongue, spit and fur and an explosion of “oh god, what am I doing?”
The taste is sharp, acrid, impossibly foul—dog food, meat, something unnamable and ancient. The Dane licks back, oblivious, eager as any pet with his mistress. Hex breaks the kiss, coughing, cheeks burning, laughter bubbling up—half-mad, half-exhilarated. “Nasty,” she chokes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing spit and self-loathing. “So nasty—ugh. You’re lucky you’re cute, you absolute beast.”
She flops back onto the rug, breathless and shaking, shame and wild glee twined together like the storm and her loneliness. The Dane, utterly unfazed, lays his head in her lap and sighs.
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, Hex feels as if she’s been branded, deep inside, by the taste of taboo. The chill in her soul is gone—replaced by something raw, secret, and hot as breath.
She grins, eyes glittering with mischief and a private madness. “Don’t tell the Swedes,” she whispers, stroking the big dog’s ears. “They wouldn’t get it.”
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